Lucille, the History Teacher
by amillefleur
Summary: Logan was growing restless, and so Charles found him another job: educating Steve Rogers, AKA Captain America, in history. Along the way, Logan joined the Avengers. They didn't know him as Logan, though, but as Lucille. With another Avenger on the team, things change. (found family indulgence lmao)
1. Prologue

"Please, sir, follow me."

From one conference room to another, it seems. Steve's not really the one to complain, but shuffling from one artificially lit room with a grey metallic table to a carbon copy on the other side of the building felt very redundant.

The walk isn't as far as moving across the entire floor, thankfully; the agent simply moves them up to a familiar bland corridor. The walk is silent, Steve thankful the nameless male doesn't attempt a conversation as they dodge other SHIELD agents moving throughout the building with an unknown purpose that he "doesn't have clearance for." All the surreptitious actions and decisions were tiring back in the '40s. Now it's just demeaning.

Like this. Barely a week out of the ice, and Steve's been told a lot of things. He hasn't had a choice in anything, just been told what he's going to do. 'Here's the person you're to see weekly'. 'Here's your room'. 'Here's your clothes'. 'We're going to introduce you to a person'. 'Wait here for two hours'. 'Follow me'.

It's no surprise to who Steve sees on the other side of the door. The black trench coat still glistens in the artificial lights, the eye patch still conceals lumps that have no business being there and Nick Fury still emitted the aura of able to command the whole building without moving from his position: casually inclined, one leg over the other, idly watching his phone. The SHIELD agent behind Steve closes the door with a click, and he remembers that maybe controlling _America_ would be an understatement.

"Captain," he grunts, one dark eye following his every movement as Steve takes the seat opposite him. The phone in his hand is left forgotten in his pocket as Fury finally shifts to a proper sitting position, hands clasped tightly together on the table as he leaned his weight forward. "How's your day been?"

Steve doesn't even try for pleasant.

"Only had my scheduled training this morning," he says, the faux cheerful tone in his voice so plastic it could almost be the chairs he's sitting on. "Other than that, I haven't been _told_ what to do."

Fury pauses, clearly not expecting his response. Obviously, none of the history books got it right, if he didn't expect Steve to start talking back. His eye goes from glaring to critical, like Steve is a mischievous boy.

"As I understand, you haven't made any requests." How could Steve make _requests_, if SHIELD hasn't even made one? If they were only going to shove, well, Steve throws a pretty good punch. False Hitler would know. "Captain," he then pauses, no doubt changing his wording to ensure that it didn't _quite_ sound like a command.

"SHIELD has been looking for a history teacher for you for some time. An acquaintance of mine recently approached me, offering the service of his history teacher. Charles is a tricky bastard, but his offers don't come with strings. He did, however, ask for you two to meet so _you_ could decide."

Steve leans back in his chair, resisting the urge to scowl at Fury. Someone outside of SHIELD was the first person in the future to offer Steve a choice, and the director wasn't happy with it. Momentarily, he wondered what kind of person Charles was, but he returned to the conversation with a short, simple; "So, where are they?"

Fury stays silent. He leans back in his chair and gives Steve another assessing look.

"I'll send her in," the director stands up and exits without preamble, thick-soled shoes quickly fading away. Steve didn't feel any less geared up - why did Fury feel the need to personally introduce this teacher? Did he really feel like showing Steve that SHIELD was _allowing_ Steve to choose something? Like Steve would suddenly appreciate the organisation after two months of being isolated?

The door swung open, Steve standing up to greet them. It's a lady; she's staring at her phone, but at Steve's seat moving she lifts her head. Steve recognises the brown eyes, the slight scowl lines above her eyebrows, lips set in an apathetic line. Her hair is long enough to not be a male cut, just barely brushing the fuzz from her bomber jacket. The jacket is black, with silver zippers littered over the sleeves and front. It's open, showing a plain forgettable graphic t-shirt that's tucked into jeans. Other than the fact she's female, Steve almost believes he's seeing double.

"Mornin''" she greets, striding forward to greet Steve's handshake. "Lucille Howlett. Nice t' meet ya." The last name is a dead give away. Steve can't believe that Logan managed to sire a family, and for SHIELD to track her down.

"You related to Logan Howlett?" He asks, just to be sure.

"The Commando? Nah, sorry, no relation." She shakes her head, and every movement she makes reminds Steve of Lucky Logan that he almost calls fib.

"Oh, my apologies. Steve Rogers, ma'am."

"You need a history teach?" She asks, sitting down as Steve slides behind the table. She sits exactly where Fury sat, and it was the way she carried herself - unflinching eye contact, strong posture, a dangerous, feral aura - that Steve could absolutely believe she knew Fury sat there and that's why she chose that seat. A third seat whines as its pulled out from the table; it's a nameless agent, choosing a spot far from them. They have a case of files, a laptop and a mug of coffee.

"I was only told about five minutes ago," Steve admits. A history teacher sounds much better than leafing through a dull book. "but I look forward to learning."

"Hmm." Howlett's eyes flick over to the agent, who has been silent since he picked Steve up from the other room. "I want t' let ya know that my style of teachin' history is focused on mindsets and ideology. I won't simply tell ya about events and give ya a multiple answer test, I will show ya how to look at history, assess it, draw conclusions from a range of sources and form ya own conclusions on events.

"Furthermore, I'm gonna go into pop culture, sexism, feminism, and other movements throughout th' last century. And, if ya interested, I'll give a few lessons of Ancient History." The stare Howlett gives Steve is challenging; it's not the starry-eyed stare of fans, it's not the insulting, 'I'm-talking-to-a-child' look Fury gives him, it's an honest look.

"You'll be challenging my morals and ideas," Steve concludes. It's not hard to guess that the times have changed. The clothes Howlett wore were new, not to mention masculine. In the walk of New York, there were a lot of clothes that made Steve blush, both on men and ladies. Furthermore, Nick Fury was an African American in a position of power.

"I won't have a student who isn't open to change, so if ya stuck in your ways, Imma afraid that's going to change." There was no doubt in her voice. It was going to happen.

Steve sat back in his chair, arms dropping from the table to rest on his legs. Howlett knew who he was, understandable, but she didn't treat Steve like a fragile glass ornament. It wasn't like she didn't care that Steve was out of time, she _acknowledged_ it, and promised to work with him.

The agent didn't make a noise. He simply stared at his pages and laptop. His SHIELD outfit blended in with the background - in contrast, Howlett was a splash of not only colour but movement and personality.

"Well then, I look forward to working with you, Miss Howlett." He smiles, sitting forward once again. Howlett doesn't smile, but the scowl marks lessen.

"Please, call m' Lucille, or Lucy." She paused for a second. "How do ya feel about moving to Mackay, Aus'ralia?"

* * *

She just so happens to glance at the screen when it dips to black, phone vibrating lightly in her hand as it receives the call. There isn't a peep of sound until she taps the pick up button.

"Logan!" Comes the cheerful greeting.

"Lucille,"

"Lucille!" Charles corrects, smoothly fixing his mistake. "How are you?" Lucille casts her eyes around her little motel room, from the untouched mini bar, silent TV, unopened bag to the stunning view of another, grey, unremarkable hotel.

"Bored. Can't move in until they've 'swept' the house. They're probably puttin' _more_ bugs in." Lucille shifts in bed until her back rests against the pillow, hearing the familiar hum of Charles' 'I agree but my rich upbringing doesn't allow me to say anything' slightly muted by technology.

"The request to move out here was left uninformed until a week ago. If you had warned them earlier, they would've already completed their business."

"Well I hadn'tta been hired, so there weren't no foundation for me to lay m' demands on."

"There's always here, Lucille-" She opens her mouth, but like the damn mind reader he was, he continues on. "-I know you're restless and over teaching teenage mutants. I could see it long coming."

Perhaps it wasn't the mind reading.

"Why do you think I had the job ready to go when you asked?"

"Ya always have everythin' already at hand. Sometimes it's the money, sometimes it's the mind tricks." She grumbles. Her hand drops to the day pack beside her bed, fishing out whatever her hand closed around. Water.

"How _is_ it going? You acquired the job, how is Mr. Rogers?" Lucille takes a swig of the bottle, searching for the most concise method to voice her thoughts. Even after she swallowed, Lucille failed to answer the question.

"Those agents, ya seen 'em, right?" That went without saying. She was speaking to Professor X of the X-Men. "Toneless, emotionless, and jus' a pile of sticks in th' mud. Steve? Him? He didn't choose t' be that way. He's had all his choices taken from him since '45 t' when I met him." _Pathetic_, she inwardly crowed, although she wasn't sure if she was referring to Steve or SHEILD. Another mouthful of water washes away the thoughts.

"I'm sure this will be an interesting ride then," Charles says, sounding like he was agreeing with Lucille's thoughts. "You haven't told him?"

"Nah."

Charles hums again. Lucille wishes he would shut up.

It's an interesting ability she has. Lucille never viewed it as spectacular, just a part of her identity. It wasn't until she switched the first time at the Xavier Mansion did someone raise some questions and with Jean's curiosity, inevitable answers - first of all, it wasn't her mutant powers allowing her to switch genders. It wasn't beyond mutant powers but Lucille's unique ability didn't include the instantaneous rebuilding of all intricate and complicated body systems from the chemical balance in her brain to rewiring of nervous systems. Whatever she could do, it wasn't from the X-gene.

Her care factor was at exactly 0%. Sometimes she was Logan, a man, and sometimes she was Lucille, a woman. And she wouldn't trade her ability out for anything.

What was questionable was the string of events ever since Lucille took interest in this damn job. It was shady to hell and back, and even though Charles had _told_ her about SHIELD and the spectrum of possibility she was about to face, the most troubling thing in the room was herself.

When she was told 'the full detail' (no doubt only one quarter), she found herself already committed to the idea, bags packed without a thought and ready to say goodbye to the horrid X-Men uniform. It took her awhile to notice, but she had remained as Lucille for a much longer period of time than the circumstances would call for. She was used to remaining as one gender for certain people, but Charles could read her mind and figure out what to call her without asking. SHIELD's job was a possibility, not an established future event. There wasn't any reason why Lucille was Lucille for almost a month straight.

The night before she was to meet Steve, she was about to trigger the switch when the strangest unease fell across her shoulders. It was like she was gearing up for something and changing to Logan would make it all fall apart.

In the end, she relented to whatever was causing the agitation; there was one time in her life she went a year as Logan for no reason other than she wanted to. She could do it again.

Then she stepped onto SHEILD premises, and all of her questions were answered. Well - some of them, at least. She - knew. Knew that she'd lived for some time. Most of it as Logan. Occasionally someone will recognise her from a past event, some stretching to the beginning of the twentieth century.

Typically, she doesn't pay them any mind. All encounters (except one, which was horrible enough that Lucille didn't look further) didn't go far. She must've been extra sneaky because people didn't recognise her beyond her face and name. They were never close with Lucille.

Over time she's come to accept that. She still hasn't regained any memories except Colonel Williams and the X Project, and along the way, she's come to accept her past self's decision to lie low.

If there was one person who threatened her choice not to pursue her past, it was Steve Rogers. Captain America. Member of the Howling Commandos.  
And - Logan was also a member.

Lucky Logan was her name, but she recognised it as what it was - friendly attachment. She was skimming through her own Wikipedia page (thankfully only full of mere scraps and useless information) when the door opened and Steve walked through.

_'Any relation to Logan Howlett?'_ He asked, almost hopeful.

_'No, no relation,'_ Lucille replied. How could she be related to herself?

She doesn't tell Charles this, instead half listening to whatever dribble comes through the phone. At one point, Charles hands the phone over to some of the kids, who blubber and snivel about Lucille leaving them. She tells them to toughen up, but couldn't resist also telling them to give the next history teacher hell. The call is over not long after the kids hand it back to Charles, who insists that he has to go.

As soon as she clicks the red button, a new text slides in.

_House ready. Please make your way there to meet Steve._

With a grin, Lucille slides her backpack on one shoulder and hefted her bigger bag under her other arm. Time for some fun.


	2. Chapter One

**Its the author! **hello readers! I am absolutely gobsmacked from the amount of response the first chapter received! I got a lot of favourites and follows and 5+ reviews, which for me, is insane. My previous stories took several chapters and months before getting a review. Honestly, thank you so much.

* * *

Lucille eyed the Chupa Chup package, bright gold corner peeking around the cupboard door. More packs, tin cans and jars dominated the lower shelf, powdery substances like flour and cocoa neatly arranged on the second level, and the highest taken up by noodle packs and pasta. She was almost done, just a few tinned vegetables and fruits to go… then she could feed.

"Surely you don't have to buy so much…"

She glanced over her shoulder as her fingers pushed a tin of pineapple chunks further into the shelf. Steve was crouched before the fridge, bottom tray out as it waited for the onions and potatoes in Steve's hands. Lucille rolled her eyes. Big beefy dude.

"I know ya eat a lotta food, so quit it."

Steve looked almost guilty, god knows why. SHIELD was ready to throw a ton of money away for Steve, and that included the massive shopping spree that resulted in this.

Steve only arrived at the house a few hours ago, babysat by sweaty suit-clad agents. Lucille had already been there for a while, sipping lemonade on the verandah. The house had been empty of food except for the few convenience store things Lucille bought yesterday, so she had proposed to go shopping. It was a two birds one stone situation; it was a chance to see how Steve interacted with the world, and Lucille was starting to feel a bit peckish.

Almost three hours later, and Lucille still hadn't had a bite. Tragic.

But what was intriguing was Steve's behaviour–at least something was accomplished. The Captain was certainly curious–observing the shopping centre with wide eyes, picking up food with intent, flicking through the radio channels of Lucille's dual cab on the way home. But Steve didn't ask. The pursuit of knowledge, a basic human trait, failed to appear in Steve, and that rubbed Lucille the wrong way. She didn't know if it was his stifling polite personality, or something more worrying.

She didn't really know Steve, didn't know his background (the one out of the spotlight), didn't know his habits, didn't know his relationships. But Steve was a human being in a strange new world. Once Steve got past the shock, he should be bursting with questions.

The last can slid into place, the white door closing softly not long after. Maybe it wasn't time for a Chupa—she was more thirsty, and it was close to dinner time.

"My apologies," Steve said as she leans over his crouched form to grab the half-empty lemonade bottle from the fridge door.

Lucille picks two cups out, because fuck, they've gotta talk. "Join me when ya done."

The view from the front balcony is slightly hindered by the row of paperbark trees between the house and the open road, but the sight of the ocean glinting through the dark green canopy is no less brilliant. When Steve joins her, there's a second where he pauses and just _breathes_. Her powerful hearing picks up on the minute pops of the lemonade's bubbles, each rustle the leaves make when rubbed together and perhaps the sound of the tension seeping out of Steve's shoulders. She politely doesn't notice him until he picks up the untouched cup.

"Want to know something about English?" She asked, waving at the other wicker chair across the round glass table. It creaked as Steve settled. He had a particular way of sitting, she noticed. Either his back was picture perfect straight, legs planted flat on the floor, arms clasped separately on his knees, or he parked his ass on the edge of the chair, spread his legs wide and propped his arms on his knees. On this particular chair, he favoured the latter.

"Sure,"

"Well, I call this lemonade. It's actually carbonated lemon-flavoured soft drink. In Australia and th' UK, if ya ask for lemonade ya can also get soft drinks called Sprite and 7-Up. But in America and Canada, lemonade is th' sweetened lemon juice with water."

Steve studies his drink and takes a tentative sip. His eyebrows shot up (isn't it sad that was the first time she saw him react to something so extremely?) and he took a larger, longer swallow.

"It's sugary, but it's not bad."

"See? Today ain't that bad. Somethings are definitely shitty —" hilariously, Steve winced at Lucille's use of the strong word, "—but shitty things come hand in hand with humans."

Steve doesn't say a thing. Maybe she said the wrong thing? That might've been a touch too middle-aged white Facebook mum—Steve would've gotten enough of that at SHIELD. Onto another topic.

Lucille isn't really _good_ at conversations.

"Your lessons. I'm gonna start at th' end of world war one. Things become clearer after th' event ends, so I'll discuss th' causes of No. 2. Then I'll cover ya war—I might cover things ya already know, but please be patient. After that is th' repercussions of th' world wars, the Cold War and th' proxy wars, and several social movements. I'll cover som technology as well. I havta focus on America, but I _won't_ hold back." She meets his eyes. America has done some fucked up shit, and still is, and her time in America hasn't really impressed the idea that many of them _know_ what their country they're so proud about really did and the repercussions. If Cap's patriotism is bruised and battered after she's done then, oops! What a shame.

Steve nods in acknowledgement. Either because of her unsaid words or simple active listening, she didn't know. And to be honest, didn't care.

"At first, we're gonna use those texts from th' bookshelf for sources, but later I'll be showing ya how to navigate laptops and phones. I want ya to be able to use them _confidently_. Pop culture also makes up society, so I'll be goin' through som books, films and other critical pieces. I won't quiz ya on this—you'll just have some books and films to watch every now and then. We won't be stuck in th' house until we're finished, might I mention," she added, turning her eyes back to the trees. Behind them stretched a beach, a small island and more. "I have some things I wanna do, like th' embroidery group, and I do like to leave th' house frequently."

"Sounds like a plan," Steve smiled, finally sitting back in his chair, breaking his tense posture. _He looks like a golden puppy dog_, she notes sourly, _I can almost feel the American patriotism growing in me._

Which was ridiculous, because she wasn't even American. Well, she hoped she wasn't.

"And Lucille, ma'am? Thanks for getting me out of SHIELD."

She raised her eyebrow. "Careful, they might hear ya," is all she replied with. "Also, _never_ call me ma'am."

* * *

She stumbled out of her room sometime close to seven. Right—dinner. The colourful packages shoved into the fridge and cupboard failed to spark an idea. What should they have for dinner? Spaghetti? Sweet & Sour Pork?

Fuck, why was this so hard? Any other day Lucille would go with whatever she was craving at the time, something simple and tasty. Steve lurked in her mind though, and suddenly a slapdash dish of karage didn't seem so appealing. Well, if she's suddenly so considerate, it might be best to ask for opinions.

Steve is easy to find; about an hour ago she heard him enter the house via the back door, and judging by the smell, he parked himself in the lounge room. Steve didn't really seem like a man who'd prefer to be cooped up in his small room.

"Whaddya want for dinner?" Sure enough, Steve had been reclined on the largest couch, thick book at hand. He sat up at Lucille's voice, peering over the cushions to where Lucille stood in the doorway. "Spit out some names and I'll see if I can make it." If not, well there's always the internet.

"I, uh, anything would be good." Steve, the ever polite man, assured her, but all it does is make her eyes roll.

"If I knew what I wanted, I wouldn't be askin'," Vaguely, she recalled one of the multiple emails from SHIELD. It annoyed Lucille that they asked ('asked' in SHIELD terms was more like a death threat, a heavenly command and strongly worded criticism all rolled into one) her to follow their 'guidelines' (like 'asked' only in a list) when regards to food. The superspy organisation had already started Steve on dishes he was familiar with and expected Lucille to pick up from there. In two months, they would switch over to 'slightly familiar' dishes.

That was utter bullshit, though. In Lucille's opinion? Steve was tougher than what SHIELD though. He could handle the strangest dishes right away.

"Well, I guess, fajitas wouldn't be so bad. They looked good on the package." Steve handles his book with care and respect, tucking a bookmark in between pages and leaving it to rest on the coffee table. He then moves to the edge of the couch, legs rigid with twin fists resting just before his knees.

Oh. Steve was—shy? Awkward? Too many adjectives. It occurred to Lucille that the next few months were setting up to be excruciatingly stiff.

"Come on, let's talk in the kitchen," she said, turning back to the hallway. Social interaction. Maybe it was a mistake to bring Steve all the way to Australia; SHIELD certainly made their displeasure known.

Lucille took out the beef and aforementioned fajita package and allowed herself to recenter. No. She knew exactly what SHIELD had planned for Steve. Confined to HQ, given an agent to learn from, every second planned out—that's wasn't a situation anyone should live in, much less assimilate to a new century. Steve wouldn't have grown.

Here, in Mackay, Steve was away from idiots who only saw Captain America. Away from fools who wanted to throw him back in the limelight ASAP. As much as Steve needed to wake up, he shouldn't be subjected to cold, unloving hands wrapped in colourless surgical gloves.

But for Steve to make the most of this trip, he needed to trust and befriend the only human who knew his situation (and had regular contact with. Those agents SHIELD planted don't count). That meant Lucille.

That meant social interaction.

Goddamnit.

"What dishes do you know?" She asked, sliding the chunked of meat into a bowl. Next, vegetables. Onion, red capsicum, carrot, snow peas and more.

Steve shifted slightly from where he leaned against the fridge. "Not many 'official' dishes. During the Depression, it was just whatever my ma and I could get thrown together. In those days, it wasn't much, and I often skipped meals to save. In the war, it was just rationed. On the occasions, Howard took us to dinner there was just so much food it all blurred together."

"So the plan SHIELD sent is useless." Nice to see the soulless agents tripping over their own words.

"How about you?" She turned just to see Steve's small gesture to her. Lucille thought about it for a second. God, where to even start? Thanks to her lost memories, she doubts she could tell the truth to herself.

"A bit of everything. Having something set is easier for shopping and choosing a meal on the fly. I know quite a few dishes from every culture and country, and apparently, they're decently made." The first time she made dinner for the adults at Chuckle's school, it was because the previous night Jean attempted sushi.

Jean.

Lucille pursed her lips for just a touch of a moment. Right, time to move on.

"What hobbies do you enjoy?" She said, just trying for anything.

"Art," Steve immediately replies, "and although I don't think it really counts, I did get into quite a lot of fights. Unintentionally!" Lucille grinned slightly, just enough for Steve to see her lips quirk up.

"I suppose I enjoy embroidery," That had been an unintentional discovery. One moment she was repairing Scott's torn denim jacket, the next she was threading tiny yellow flowers at the cuffs. Lucille finished it anyway—too bad Scott's threatened ego felt the need to make its royal ass known again. "I found a group that embroiders together every Thursday afternoon. Wanna join?"

Steve seemed uncomfortable. Lucille didn't know if that was fragile masculinity or just his polite personality balking at joining something so casually. If it was the masculinity, then Steve better be on his fucking toes.

"I'm sure I could find an art group too." The meat sizzled as Lucille threw it into the pan, a beautiful scent rising from the seasoned meat. It may be the white version of the Mexican dish, but it still smelled heavenly.

The conversation paused as Lucille speeds through the last few steps. The first few minutes of dinner is preoccupied with Lucille showing Steve how to make a fajita. Once they've got something in their belly, Steve continued.

"This is really good," he said, gesturing to the food. He certainly acted like he appreciated the food, taking big bites and was already on his third roll. Thank god Lucille already knew Steve would eat a whole package alone and opened two.

Oooh, she wanted to ignore him. She wanted to cut the conversation with a grunt. She just wanted to eat and then possibly go read something. Or sleep. Anything but a dumb fucking _conversation._

"The authentic version is much better." Fuck—that wasn't a conversation starter. What else can she talk about? Anything but the war, right? "Glad to hear that you like it, anyway. Do you have anything that you don't like?"

Steve thought about it for a second. "I guess eggplants?"

"Glad we're on the same footing." Scott always thought it weird that Lucille could taste the difference between the smallest things and was a near perfectionist with cooking. It wasn't as if she liked a delicious taste - actually, because of her healing factor her taste buds couldn't die. Cooking was a love-hate relationship with her.

"What do you like?"

"Asian cuisine, yakiniku in particular. Ya cook little strips of meat on a stove—real tasty." Lucille takes another bite of the fajita. The cool strip of sour cream really brought it all together. "But other than that, it's a mix and match of various dishes from all sorts of cultures."

"Happy to eat them all." Steve lightly laughs. She files away the small show of enjoyment. It was relieving to hear his stoic soldier personality finally buckle. Even the strongest of facades could crumble to a delicious dish.

Or maybe it wasn't the food; maybe it was the company. Hmm. Lucille did not file that away—instead, she shoved it under the rug. Those words carried something within them that she found herself _extremely_ touchy about.

"Good to hear." She said, leaving it at that. But she couldn't, didn't she? She was required to respond in kind because Steve was a lost soul without a cornerstone. "I'll cook up the wildest dishes, and you shower me with compliments, cool?"

They shared a chuckle. Inside Lucille was shuddering over the straight people light talk.

When they retired for the evening, Lucille vanishing back into her room to continue to plan. But for the first time since she stepped into the house, she felt herself relaxing.

Maybe it wasn't so bad that she was living with Steve. Who knows where it might lead?


End file.
